Plymouth Passion | NEON LIT

Six months. Michael had been deployed for six months, and Cynthia was crawling out of her skin with loneliness.

The knock came at 7 PM. She opened it to find a young sailor in uniform, nervous smile on his face.

"Mrs. Patterson? I'm Able Seaman David Clarke. Your husband asked me to deliver something."

He handed her a letter and a small package. She invited him in while she read—news from Michael, missing her, counting the days.

"Thank you," she said, eyes damp. "Will you stay for tea?"

David should have declined. But Mrs. Patterson looked so sad, and she was also, he couldn't help but notice, absolutely stunning.

Cynthia was St. Lucian, thirty-eight, with warm brown skin and a body built for Caribbean beaches. Thick thighs, full breasts, curves that her simple house dress couldn't hide. She caught him looking.

"You think I don't notice, but I notice everything when I've been alone this long." She poured their tea. "How old are you, David?"

"Twenty-three, ma'am."

"Ma'am." She laughed. "I'm not that old. Call me Cynthia."

"Cynthia." He liked how her name felt in his mouth.

"Michael speaks highly of you. Says you're respectful. Hard-working." She sipped her tea. "Loyal."

"Can I be honest with you, David?"

"Of course."

"I've been faithful to Michael for fifteen years. Never even looked at another man." She set down her cup. "But six months is a long time. And the loneliness..." Her voice cracked. "I just want to feel human again."

"Cynthia, I—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed to say it out loud." She wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry. You should go."

But David didn't move. "What if... what if you didn't have to be lonely tonight?"

She looked at him—really looked. Young, yes, but strong. Kind eyes. Hands that had worked.

"Michael can never know."

"I would never."

"And this doesn't mean anything. Just two people helping each other."

"I understand."

She stood and held out her hand. "Then come upstairs. Please."

In the bedroom, she was shy at first. It had been so long since anyone but Michael had seen her body. But David looked at her like she was a goddess.

"You're beautiful," he breathed, watching her undress. "So beautiful."

Her curves came free—heavy breasts, soft belly, thick thighs. He touched her reverently, learning her.

"I haven't done this since..." She couldn't finish.

"I'll be gentle." He laid her on the bed. "Let me take care of you."

He was as good as his word. Gentle, attentive, making sure she felt everything. His mouth and hands explored her body, finding places Michael had long stopped visiting.

"Oh God... it's been so long..."

When he finally entered her, she grabbed his shoulders and held on. He moved slowly, watching her face.

"Is this okay?"

"More than okay." She pulled him deeper. "Please, don't stop."

He didn't stop. He kept going until she came apart beneath him, crying from relief as much as pleasure. Then he let himself go, collapsing beside her.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I needed that more than I can say."

"So did I." He kissed her forehead. "Do you want me to go?"

"Stay. Until morning. I can't face another night alone."

He stayed. Held her through the night. Made love to her again when she reached for him before dawn.

"Michael's back in three months," she said as he dressed.

"I know."

"This has to be the only time."

"I know." He kissed her, soft and sweet. "But thank you for tonight. For letting me be there for you."

Michael never knew. David kept the secret, even as they served together for another two years. Every time he delivered a letter to the Patterson house, Cynthia would smile at him—a private smile, full of gratitude.

"Thank you for the delivery," she'd say formally.

"Always happy to help, Mrs. Patterson."

And that was all. One night of comfort in the middle of a long deployment. Sometimes that was enough.

But on particularly lonely nights, she'd remember how he'd held her. And she'd send up a quiet prayer of thanks for kind young men who understood what loyalty really meant.